


Whiplash

by inkandstone



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Guns, M/M, Organized Crime, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Philosophy, Politics, Punjabi Lives yo, Violence, and geTS SNATCHED, and some random person is minding their own business, i find it really funny, when some heir to the mafia is like "I need a NORMAL friend"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:27:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23144659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkandstone/pseuds/inkandstone
Summary: Someone is trying to graduate, someone is trying to live normally. They meet and they give everyone whiplash.
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

“You look lonely.”

Iman gave a jolt and glanced up to see someone sitting across from her. He’s young, maybe early 20s, around her age. A suit without a tie-she can’t tell what color it is, the lights are too dim-is pressed to perfection, a golden watch flashes from beneath the sleeve. Dark brown hair is in curls and his nose is too narrow.

“What makes you think I’m lonely?” Iman asks, straightening up from the slouch she had. He’s probably one of those rich men who are so damn bored with all their luxuries, so tired of wasting away in their castle of a home, that he seeks out some random, isolated girl in a bar. Say a few words that pushes the buttons, cloaks himself with an air of smugness and nonchalant. Already, Iman is looking for an escape.

The man shrugs. “Just seemed like it.” He’s settled back deep into the seat and yep, he’s not going anywhere. “It’s quiet over here.”

“Mmm,” is all Iman says as she glances back at her laptop. E-mails from her professor, her father, some from Under Armor; she tackles the ones from Change.org and, after eyeing the ones from her father, asks the man,”Are you waiting for someone?”

“Nope. Just got a bit of a headache. You?”

“Writing an essay.”

“MSU?”

“Yep.”

And then there’s silence.

While the man sips his drink, Iman clicks on the email her professor sent her. Something about her reasoning in an essay about themes doesn’t connect well with her evidence. In other words, half her essay sounds like bullshit. The class itself is a little fun-looking at a rose, a stone in a story, and seeing it has ripples of meaning behind it-but essays are always a pain. It becomes an ache when you have to read the same thing over and over.

Iman edits. The man drinks. People come and go. When the clock strikes 10:20, she gathers her things and leaves. Looking back at the man, wishing him a good night before heading to her car.

She’s back the next day and finds the man sitting in the same spot, texting. Her mouth dries up a little and she labels him, jumping from creep to stalker. She should move, but he might follow. The bar looks like it's covered in nuts and spilled alcohol, and she really wants a Shirley temple…

“Collin Boniface,” he says without preamble when Iman settles down with a chilled glass of Shirley temple. He glances up and notices her raised eyebrows. “I’m Collin Boniface.”

“Iman Dhawan.” 

“Still working on that essay?” He actually looks curious, leaning forward just a tad as she shows him the screen. Maybe he isn’t someone who seeks out people to push their buttons wrong. Maybe he just likes a quiet corner shared with a junior in college.

“Still got a headache?”Iman shoots back, taking a sip of her drink. 

Collin Boniface looks at her and his grey eyes look troubled despite the calm face put on. “Figuratively, I have one.” His pointer finger begins to tap on the wooden table. “Actually, no, make that multiple.”

“That’s rough, buddy,” Iman says, meaning it. Collin looks like he’s in the business area, probably works in those tower-like-buildings, feet propped up and jabbering into the phone about statistics and sales. Unlike her, who's taking enough classes to make her a surgeon. 

Collin lets out a quiet chuckle. “Yeah, yeah it is.”

And again, there’s that comfortable silence. It's nice, almost friendly

~

Iman comes in after four days- _another_ goddamn essay, what the fuck, she _hates_ writing-and stops short at the sight of two guys sitting at the table she and Collin usually sit at. They’re both dressed in grey suits and black shirts, and both have beards. One of them is talking while the other is leaning back comfortably, scanning the room. Collin actually looks irritated; his eyes are narrowed and his hands are waving about as he talks. 

Iman settles for a spot at the bar. The bartender hands her a glass of water and a loud thump stalls her hand; Collin has slammed his fist down on the table. The noise seems to echo in the empty pub (“Tuesdays are always slow days,” the owner once declared) and Iman feels a slight bit of unease.

Iman turns back to the bartender who's watching the scene with a frown on her face. “How long have they been here,” she asks. When the woman turns to face her, she’s surprised to see the look of terror on her face.

The bartender shrugs. “ ‘Bout an hour,” she mutters, tucking a strand of curly red hair behind her ear. The hand is shaking and all Iman can think is how empty the pub is. What was that word that talked about a bustling room that’s deserted? Started with a “k”...

 _Kenopsia._ What she was feeling was kenopsia.

Chairs scrape against the floor. Footsteps sound behind her. The door closes. Iman counts to ten, picks up her things, and heads over to the table. Takes the men’s place and quirks a brow when Collin glances up at her with a hard look in his eyes. It’s a silent question, that quirk of a brow. Same one her mother gave her whenever she and her cousins looked too nonchalant for their own good. _What happened_ inquired that brow.

Collin heaves a great sigh that seemed to have been sleeping in his chest. “Business issues,” is all he says and Iman can tell, from the tightness around his eyes, that this man needs a drink.

“You like whiskey?” she asks.

“What?”

“You like whiskey?”

“If you’re buying me a drink, I’d like Cocoroco if they have any.”

The bartender calls out,”We don’t, sorry.”

“I’ll have some whiskey, then.”

Iman buys him the drink and when he gulps half of it down the tightness disappears.

“Thank you for that. You didn’t have too”

“Just trying to spread some good in the world.”

“By damaging my liver?”

“You could’ve said no.”

“You got me there.” Collin smiles at her. “No, seriously, why buy me a drink. And if you’re looking for a hook-up, I’m with someone already.”

Iman chokes a little on her water. “Oh, dear God, no. You just looked..” Searches for the words, picks up the letters and forms them. “You looked like those guys exhausted you.” Was that even the right thing to say?

Collin just stares at her, takes in the black jeans and black shirt, the white cardigan, the black turban. The laptop and her navy backpack. Is he trying to piece her together? Iman waits for an analysis of her character.

Instead, Collin turns to the bartender behind him. “Can you get my friend a beer?”

“Oh, no, I don’t drink.”

Collin turns back again. “Actually, make that a Shirley temple.” He glances back at her. “Is that ok?”

It’s more than okay. It’s not everyday someone buys her a drink.

“Who were those guys?” Iman asks when a glass of Shirley is placed in her hand.

The edge of Collin’s mouth twists up a little. “Two of the headaches I have. They say I pissed them off, I say it was a misunderstanding. Idiots, really.” The brown haired man sighs and leans forward. “Don’t worry about it, it’s nothing huge.”

“Hopefully not. Wouldn’t want to lose my new drinking buddy.” She has to smile at that because of the irony: her, a nondrinker with him, who probably goes wine sampling in the country.

Collin laughs and she joins him, thinking the most cliche thing ever: _This is the start of a beautiful friendship.'_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fate. Iman swallowed down another bout of bitter laugh as she thought about it; fate that Collin sat at her table, fate that he was always there, fate that his sister found out about it, fate that of all the people Iman had to befriend it had to be someone from the Russian mafia.
> 
> 'Fucked up is what this is.'

"Who's Collin?" her mother asks during FaceTime.

Iman stops her retelling of her day, takes a sip of her mango smoothie, and answered. "Just some friend, you don't know him. I met him 'bout a month ago."

"Does he go to your school?" Simran, her younger brother by four years, asks. He peers in closely into the camera, covering his parents so that all you could see was his brown eyes and red _patka_

"Simran, back up, I can't see Mom and Dad."

" _You_ back up."

_"Vhat,"_ Iman deadpans, allowing a Russian accent to slip into her Western one. It draw a laugh out of Simran who settles back.

Her father spoke up, long beard twitching as he spoke. "Do you have any tests coming up?" he asks, leaning forward a bit.

Iman frowns in thought. "Not tomorrow, but on Wednesday. Its for organic chemistry." Organic chemistry was one of the classes she was taking in order to become a neurosurgeon. Only a couple of more years of school and Iman will be pulling on plastic gloves in order to treat tumors and removing clots from the brain.

A yawn pushed its way from her. Glancing at the time on the clock beside her, Iman could see that it was getting late. "Alright, guys," she said. "I'm gonna' go to bed."

"Are you still coming on Friday?" her mother asked.

"Saturday, Mom. I have a test on Friday."

"What time?"

"Uh, probably in the morning? Yeah, probably."

Simran piped up,"You don't know, do you?"

"Do _you_ know, Simran? Are _you_ in college? Yeah, didn't think so. Okay, goodnight guys, love you." She shut her phone off after a chorus of goodnights and allowed herself to fall onto her bed, smiling softly. She would never admit it, but moving from her home in Ann Arbor to Detroit to attend Michigan State University had scared her a little. It was one thing to be so far away form her cozy suburban home, but another to wake up and not be welcomed by her family every morning. 

Sighing, Iman stood and began to change into her pajamas. A mental checklist began to form in her head, things to do for tomorrow as she moved to the bathroom. ' _Go to class, cut nails, buy some pads, talk to professor, text friends-'_

Iman stopped and furrowed her brows, taking her toothbrush out of her mouth.

"Huh," she said out loud to the empty bathroom.

Despite the time that she spent with Collin, they never exchanged numbers. Iman relied on the idea that he might still be at the pub they met at. It had never crossed her mind to give him her number, and Collin hadn't brought it up either. 

_'Get Collin's number,'_ was added to the mental checklist.

~

_'Maybe I don't need a number if he's always going to be here,'_ Iman thought as she strode over to their table.

Collin glanced up and sent her a smile that she returned.

"Hey, hey," Iman greeted, sliding into her seat. A plate of wings with sauces lining up next to them was waiting for her. She picked one up and reached for the ranch. "How are you?"

Collin shrugged, taking a sip of his Coke. "Pretty good. Same old, same old."

"More arguments?"

Collin nodded, frowning. "Someone slipped up in business and now everyone is turning to _me_ for an answer. And-Look, its flattering that they think I have the answer, but no one helps. At all."

"How did they slip up?" Iman asked, slipping a wing into her mouth, and pulling it out when all of the meat was stripped from the bones.

Collin pointed at her. "That. That is cool. Anyway, lets just say that they were delivering something really important and managed to fuck it up because they're a dumbass. The person who needed it is pissed because apparently it was..." Here, he paused and looked out the window. Following his gaze, Iman saw a a beagle gazing up at it's owner, a perfectly reasonable site to admire. Then, Collin turned back to her. "The package was fragile. And the people under my care are like 'Oh, this is fine! Collin can fix this! Let's just sit around and not help him with a situation he's new to!' " Pink splotches grew on Collin's cheeks and faded when a sigh left him. "Assholes."

"Don't you have a supervisor to help?" Iman asked, reaching for another wing.

"No. That's kinda' my fault, though. Told my parents that I'd be fine without anyone watching over me. I just-See-" Finally, Collin gave up the sentence he was trying to build. "I don't want to let them down." Suddenly, he looked younger.

Iman quickly set down her water and leaned forward. "You won't let them down, Collin," she began, eyes watching her friend's face. "If anything, you'll make them proud."

Collin blinked at her, face blank. She held her gaze until a small smile grew on her friend's face. Satisfied, Iman sat back and bit down onto another wing. She and Collin chatted for a bit, exchanging slices of their lives, commenting on the weather, and diving into an intense discussion on the nature of morality. Sitting here, ice clinking in their glasses, laughing so hard her sides ached and she gasped for breath, Iman felt content.

~

' _If two or more D.B.'s are present, number them the chain so that the D.B.'s is at it's lowest.'_

This is what Iman read as she sat in the lecture room along with the other fifteen students to take a test. It was about the structures and reactivity of alkanes and several of the students looked harried and anxious; Iman imagined that some of her fellow classmates had decided to procrastinate instead of sitting down and reading the notes.

Their professor, a stout black man with a narrow nose and thinning hair, entered the room and Iman distantly heard someone behind her mutter profanities at the education system. 

Thomas Coon peered at the class over his horn-rimmed glasses, setting his briefcase onto the desk. "Books away, everyone," he said. His voice was the type to fill the room to a brim, the laugh even louder. "Pencils out. Phones at the front. You know the drill," Professor Coon added over the groans emitted from several people. A grey bin one would use for a science experiment was produced with a bang.

Just as Iman was about to place her own phone into the bin at the front, Coon held up a hand to stop her. "Ah, actually, Iman, I almost forgot to tell you. You're needed in the counselor's office."

"Why?"

"Some people need to talk to you. You can makeup the test on your own time, just tell me as soon as possible."

"Okay, Professor," Iman said, heading back to her seat to grab her bag and coat. She mulled over the possibilities as to why she was suddenly summoned to the counselor's office. The only time she ever went were the required meetings between student and their respective counselors with hints of schedule changes sprinkled in there.

She finally came upon the door and knocked. 

No answer.

Confused, Iman tapped at the door again with her knuckles. 

Again, no answer. 

_'This is like some horror movie scenario.'_ Iman cast a glance around the vacant hallway she stood in, and turned the knob of the door before her. ' _Why isn't this locked?'_ Pushing open the door, she caught a chilling sight.

Mrs. Suzuki, a tall women in her mid-30s with dark brown hair, was her counselor. Usually, she would be seen seated at her desk, going throw paperwork and e-mails. Today, however, she was slumped unconscious in her chair. Three men surrounded her desk, all dressed in blue jeans, button up shirts, and tanned trench coats. At least two of them held a gun loosely in their hands. They all turned to Iman when she pushed the door open and stepped into the room.

Iman herself froze. Her grip on the doorknob tightened as she stared at the men in front of her. ' _Oh God oh God oh God what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck.'_

For a moment, the men stared at her until one of them- _the one with the_ gun, _oh fuck, no no no no no-_ raised his arm so that the weapon was pointing straight at Iman. "Close the door," he ordered, mouth set in a firm line.

Iman blinked at him, swallowed, looked at the unconscious- _please be unconscious_ -form of Mrs. Suzuki, and took a deep breath. She took a hasty step back and slammed the door shut with a bang. Then, she turned on heel and began to run-

-into somebody.

Hands suddenly gripped her upper arms in a grip that would leave bruises. Iman tried to wrench herself free but the person holding her-a tall woman in a dark coat-had a grip of iron. When she tried to shout for help, a damp cloth was slapped over her nose and mouth; Iman gagged as it was practically shoved in her mouth. She heard a door open, felt herself be dragged into the office, and cried out when they shoved her into a chair. She kicked out and felt satisfaction when her foot came in contact with something, but there were four of them and one of her. Soon, they had her restrained in a chair with their own hands.

' _God don't let me die her don't do this to me please don't someone HELP-!'_

Dark shadows began to creep along the edge of her vision. They crept more and more until they covered her eyes and she let them.

~

Iman is lying on a bed when she wakes up.

The bed is more of a cot, dull in color, a bundle of cloth to serve as a pillow. The room she is in is small and lit only by a singly lightbulb that hangs from it's wire. There are two folding chairs and a white bucket on the floor.

Iman props herself up and blinks away the sleep from her eyes. Only it wasn't sleep, it was some type of drug...

Her mouth is dry as she recalls everything: the prone form of Mrs. Suzuki, the men with the guns, an order for her to shut the door, the tall woman shoving her in a chair, eyelids closing. 

Iman glanced down at herself and saw that she was wearing the same clothes: black jeans, yellow turtleneck sweater, long black coat for the November air. No injuries in sight. A glance at her hands saw that they were shaking and Iman quickly lifted them up and adjusted her turban, giving them something to do. 

The sound of the door opening made them shake even worse _did these people not understand knocking_ and Iman whipped her head around to see the same man who had pointed a gun at her walk into the room. She acts on autopilot, grabbing the chair closest to her, and raising it like a shield in front of her. "Stay the Hell away from me," Iman spits out, surprised by the ferocity in the words.

The man simply raises an eyebrow at her and takes out his gun, aiming it at her with the air of someone who grew up around firearms.

Iman drops the chair and lets herself be dragged out of the room.

She's dragged down two flights of stairs and into a room much larger than the one she was in (can she call that her cell?) where there are people waiting for her. The tall woman who drugged her is seated at a round table, flanked by heavyset men dressed in black and armed. The three men Iman saw in Mrs. Suzuki's office are there as well, and they watch her intently as she is dragged to the table.

' _I do not want to be here, this is the worst, what the shitty-fuckity clownery is this, shit shit shit shit MOTHERFUCKING SHIT!'_

_"_ Sit," the woman at the table said-no, ordered-and Iman didn't need the man's hand to make her sit down.

She is stared at for a long time. The woman before her has tanned skin, brown eyes that look dark and searching, and chestnut hair pulled back in a high ponytail; pretty in a way that you only find in magazines. She wears a light blue long sleeve shirt under a white peacoat, and something glitters from her earlobes. 

For a while, they stare at each other until the woman leans forward. "You know Collin." It's more of a statement than a question

Iman stares at her, mouth dry. "I don't understand," she finally says, trying to remember if she had done anything criminal to catch the attention of terrifying people. Her thoughts scatter when one of the men flanking the blonde woman steps forward with a folder in hand. It's flipped open and there are photos of her and Collin walking down the street, both of them laughing, Collin waving her distant figure behind, herself drinking juice and looking out the window, and more.

The last one is recent because she knows that juice-grape-was poured in a wine glass, and the glass itself is an antique given to her from a friend.

"What is this?" she asks-no, demands because there is panic bubbling up in her and if she doesn't get any answers soon, she's going to scream. "Who are you people?!"

The woman before here arches a skinny eyebrow. "My name," she begins in a husky voice. "Is Veronica Orlov. Are you familiar with the name Orlov, Iman Dhawan?"

Iman doesn't like the way she says her name, all proper and buisnesslike with a side of sliminess to indicate that she is not liked here. Instead, she shakes her head at the question offered at her and this entire situation.

The blond woman-Veronica-watches her intently before speaking up again. "I'm sure Collin mentioned something about our family during your...visits together," she said, a smile on her lips. Its the type of smile Iman's eight grade English teacher used to give to the rowdy students in class; the _I-know-you-know-the-answer-so-try-harder-or-else._

Iman doesn't want to know about the _or else._

"Listen," she begins because her hands are shaking _again._ "This is all a huge misunderstanding. Collin and I? We're just friends, nothing more. I am _not_ an accomplice to whatever illegal stuff he did." Catching Veronica's impassive stare, she continued. "If you let me go I swear I won't go to the police. I'll just continue on with my life, you'll continue on with your life, and we can put this whole thing behind us."

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" Veronicas asks while twirling her hand. Someone approaches her and Iman whips around to see one of the men step forward with his gun raised towards her. "It takes more than just pretty words to convince me." The smile was gone from the blonde woman's face, replaced by a cold gaze.

Wiping her sweaty hands on her pants, Iman stammered,"W-Well, how can I-I convince you?"

Veronica leaned forward and a sharp smile that promised pain grew on her face. "Now we're getting somewhere. Why don't you start with these meetings between you and my brother."

' _Her brother?'_ Iman couldn't remember Collin metioning a sister (a scary one at that) and she wanted to ask more. But, one look at the woman's face across from her made her think that asking would leave her bleeding. Instead, Iman told her shakingly told about the pub, walks they had, emphasising on how it was all strictly platonic. Somewhere in the middle of a story about Collin drinking five Firebombs, the gun was lowered. "And that's it," Iman said, leaning back, wishing for a glass of water.

Since they have met, Veronica Orlov's face was blank, passive. But after Iman stopped talking, her brows furrowed and the corners of her mouth drooped. "You really don't know what's happening?" she asked incredulously, leaning back. When Iman shook her head, Veronica's face darkened. "Well, this creates some problems," she muttered to the man on her right.

Iman stared at them, waited a moment, then deemed it safe to speak. "Uh," she began, mouth dry. "Is Collin in trouble? Did he-Did he do any embezzlement or anything?"

Veronica stared at her hard, eyes searching before letting out a resignated sigh. She mumbled something inaudible before raising her voice to speaking level. "The Orlov family" she began. "Is a name well known in Russia and amongst the authorities in America, Canada, and Mexico. We are the mafia, the _Bravta,_ the organized crime you read about in newspapers and watch in movies. I'm the heiress to the family and Collin is my younger brother."

Her words hang out in the air in a clipped tone. ' _Dirty laundry in the air,'_ Iman thinks hysterically.

She presses her hands together, closes it into a fist and rests her forehead on it. This cannot be happening; Collin was a young, passionate man who thinks the way she eats wings is cool and tells terrible puns. There is no way he could be in the mafia, in the Orlov family. Something itches at the back of her mind and Iman asks without looking up,"He said his name was Collin Boniface."

"That's one of his fake names. Every Orlov has them when they go out in public," Veronica explained, then hummed. "Boniface." She said it like she was rolling a new flavor around her mouth, testing it. The next thing she says almost makes Iman laugh. "It means something along the lines of fate."

Fate. Iman swallowed down another bout of bitter laugh as she thought about it; fate that Collin sat at her table, fate that he was always there, fate that his sister found out about it, fate that of all the people Iman had to befriend it had to be someone from the Russian mafia.

_'Fucked up is what this is.'_

Veronica is still talking and Iman shoves aside any screaming thoughts to hear her. "We were originally somewhere up north, but needed to come down here. Collin was getting anxious-I could tell-and I should have stopped him from doing something this reckless. Like go and meet some woman over and over, avoid responsibilities, not respond to his fiance-"

That got Iman's attention. She looked up at Veronica, blinking. "He's engaged?" she asked, looking back at their past conversations and trying to see if he had ever mentioned or hinted at having a fiance.

None. Of course, someone in the mafia would keep personal information under lock and key.

The blonde woman nodded. "Yes, he's getting married in two months. Which brings me to my next question...are you and Collin dating?" Her gaze grew sharper with every passing minute.

This time Iman did laugh; a startle chuckle left her as she waved a hand as if to dispel any misconceptions. "No! God, no, we're just friends. And he's never tried to flirt with me, really." She didn't understand why people assumed a man and a woman meeting together means they're together, but people also believe that girls are being "friendly" when they kissed.

"Well, that's a relief. For a moment, I though I had to beat my brother for sleeping with some woman while being engaged." The smile Veronica shot her was icy and had an edge that reminded Iman of a sneaky nail hidden under carpet. The guard to her left smiled briefly before disappearing like breath blown on grass.

Iman swallowed-hopefully some of her shaking nerves that should _not_ be present right now-and gave a smile in return; it felt unsteady as she spoke. "Yeah, a relief. Is...there anything else you need to know? From me?" ' _Is there anything you need from only me, and not my family and friends? Not from anyone innocent?'_

Veronica tapped her fingers onto the table, the noise amplified by in a room where a wrong room means a bullet to the head. "Yes," she replied slowly, as if making sure each word was suitable. "Yes, there is some things I need to know." She shot Iman a small smile. "And then, you can ask me some."

"Will it take long?" Iman asked, wondering how long its been since Professor Coon told her to go to the counselors office. There were no windows in the in the room their in and her phone is gone, probably confiscated by one of the guards. 

"Not unless you're planning on being difficult," Veronica replied before folding her hands infront of her, schooling her expression. "First off, are you okay with my brother's number being in your phone?"

Iman blinked; she was expecting something more intense. "Uh, no, I don't mind."

"Good, because I already have it in, and I don't feel like deleting it." The man to Veronica's left produced Iman's phone and slid it across the table toward her as the blonde woman explained. "I figured now that you know who Collin really is, you might as well have his number. Next question, are you just a college student?"

Iman nodded. "Yes, but I have a job interview next week from today. You know how student debt is. Unless you went to a private school."

Veronica smiled. "I was homeschooled, actually. Next question," she said, holding her hand out for another folder to be produced by the man on her right. "I had my people look into you and saw that you had some trouble with the police. Can you explain that?"

Iman felt her heart drop at this, glancing down at the table instead of her. She contemplated the idea of skipping the question but decided to not test her luck. _'Still,'_ she thought, looking up. _'I wish it was another question.'_

Veronica sat there waiting, folder open and one eyebrow raised. Iman sighed and began talking. "I've had people call police on me," she began, pushing down rising feelings. "They-Not a lot of people like what other people look. One person reported me because I looked like a terrorist, another because she thought I was a danger to kids. I never agitated the officers and I they've stopped when I went to high school. I haven't had any trouble with the police since."

' _I was confused and terrified,'_ she wanted to shout. ' _I was a kid and someone thought I was going to bomb the school. My mother wanted me to cut my hair, my father wanted to move, and I was lonely because no one wanted to sit next to me. I wasn't aloud to be angry because the one time I did someone shouted that I was going to kill them, and_ I _got sent to the principal office. No one said anything about how I perseveered or was brave or grew as a person. They don't say stuff like that to people like me.'_

Iman didn't say this. Some things were meant to be held close rather than put out into the world.

Veronica listened with furrowed brows, frowning. Then, she shuffled through the reports, reading them. Iman felt as if she was standing infront of her father while he looked over her report card; stomach in knots, tongue suddenly too big for her mouth. Finally, Veronica looked up with steel in her gaze. "That's unfortunate," she said flatly as the folder was closed and tossed aside.

The questions continued after that; her routine, where she was living. After being asked, Iman spoke her own questions, asking if Collin was going to be in trouble and if any unsavory "business" was going to affect her.

"Collin and I _are_ going to have a talk when I get back," Veronica said, rubbing at her temples. "And I doubt he'll try and involve you in any business. If anything, he'll try and keep you away from that along with myself. Also, I expect you to go along with the new regulations," she added.

"What regulations?" Iman asked.

Veronica straightened, eyes hard and intense. From underneath the table, a small gun was pulled out and spun in her hand with the air of a professional. Iman found it hypnotizing to watch. "If you whisper so much as a word to anyone even you're little brother," Veronica said in a piercing voice. "You will disappear. I have people who are professionals in making people into nothing but a missing person case. If you try to trick my brother into exposing himself, harm him in any way, decieve or betray him, I will make death look like a paradise. Do you understand?"

The gravity of the situation weighed on Iman, leaving her dizzy from everything that had happened, everything she just learned. She sat there, hands shaking while an heiress to a bloody mafia family toyed with a gun, her hands steady as the tattoo of a drum. The final word had been taken. She could just be escorted back to her dorm and try not to scream. She could just sit here and listen to this woman threatan to hurt her loved ones, and press her lips together to not roar back.

Could.

"I do." Iman swallowed once, twice, then continued. "I do understand. I also have some regulations for you, too." The gun slowed down to a full stop as she stood from her chair. "If you or anyone in your family try to contact my family and friends, so much as look at them, you won't be an heress to the Orlovs. Because I will end you and everyone you know." 

This was her roaring back. Iman didn't care that Veronica Orlov could take her down in five different ways in ten seconds flat, that with a twirl of a hand she could be shot dead, that she could really disappear and never be heard from. All she cared was that the people she loved were safe and sound.

Veronica watched her with apraising eyes before grinning with far too much teeth. "Ballsy words," she muttered. "I like it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Organic chemistry is something you need to study in order to become a surgeon fyi  
> -A patka is a head covering that is usually worn by boys who are Sikh. Its identifiably from a turban because its notted on top while a turban is wrapped the head. The turban is how we crown ourselves as Siks and Khalsa and to show our love, loyalty, self-respect, and devotion for the founder of the Khalsa Guru Gobin Singh. Both men and woman can wear a turban but its not a requirement, its a choice.  
> -Orlov means eagle. It is a Russian surname. The Orlov family is known to having meanings behind everything bc who doesn't love symbolism.  
> -Bravta is another name for the Russian mafia
> 
> This chapter was a pain in the ass to make. Hope eveyrone is doing okay during this whle quarantine thing. Remember to stay safe and clean!!!

**Author's Note:**

> I woke up in sweat to write this, so take it.


End file.
